


A Full Sea

by catwalksalone



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time, Humor, Mild Adventure, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwalksalone/pseuds/catwalksalone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“There is a tide in the affairs of women,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Which, taken at the flood, leads--God knows where,”</em>
</p>
<p> <em>Lord Byron</em></p>
<p>or in other words, </p>
<p>Jack's scheming brings him far more than he could have bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Full Sea

**Author's Note:**

> With many, many thanks to soupytwist for her enthusiasm and excellent editing skills. 
> 
> In case you were wondering, this story takes place in the same universe as the Salt series, but it is an entirely separate thing. The time is early 1719.

"Anne," said Jack with an inward sigh. "Darling. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Max has gone the way of respectability. Even Woodes Rogers can see that whores benefit the local economics. She knows which side her bread is buttered, that one. Butters it herself, no doubt."

"Doesn't mean we have the right to take all the gold, does it?"

"Well." Of course it fucking did, but Jack knew better than to say that out loud to an Anne who couldn't see past the needs of her own cunt. Now, now, he berated himself. Be fair. As much as it pained him to admit it, there was some heart tangled up in it too.

"All I'm saying is that it would behoove us to consider moving it from a place of lesser safety—you know, where Max can decide to fund the governor's delightful militia with it, for example—to one of greater safety. Where we can control what we do with it, for the sake of us."

"And the men," prompted Anne.

Jack shrugged. "And the men. But mostly us."

Anne chewed her thumbnail. "So what d'you want to do? We show our faces round Nassau way and we'll hang."

Jack's neck ached at the mere thought. "I know. We shall have to be stealthy. Given that's your forte, I'm sure all will pass off admirably, though I'm afraid it will be long, tedious work. On the other hand, there will be much less to move than the first time given the passage of years and the inability of our fellows to save for a rainy day." He touched his lip gingerly. "And hopefully far, far less fighting."

"Right." Anne squared her shoulders. "So when do we start?"

It was exactly as Jack had anticipated: long, tedious and surprisingly damaging to shins. They rowed into New Providence every night from the ship anchored well out of sight, creeping through the brush and sugar plantations to each stash in turn, only the light of a single lantern to help them remember where to dig here, where to shift dry brushwood there. Even with two boats and four crew it was unbearably slow going and some nights they had to return empty handed. But by the end of two weeks they had almost all of the gold stowed aboard the _Colonial Dawn_ , Jack had such a collection of multi-coloured bruises across his shins that he'd begun to think of them as medals of honour, and Anne's scowl was set even deeper than usual by layers of dry dirt.

They were loading the final crates into the boats when a voice came out of the darkness.

"See, if it were me, like, I would've sailed that ship of your'n off a long time since. Left you here with nought but these boats and your silver tongue to your name."

Jack was torn between a shivering pride at the flattery and the concomitant affront to his name. 

"Of course my ship is safe," he said to the unknown interlocutor. "My men have seen me find our way out of the most precarious of situations. They've seen me talk down captains of ships far mightier than we should have pretended to. They know that if they cross me it will bring almost certain death for them. And, of course, there's Anne, whose reputation goes before her, as well it should. Why would they betray us?" He squinted into the darkness, irritation crawling under his skin. "Who the fuck are you anyway?"

"Someone who needs a way off this island," said the voice. "Took the King's pardon, didn't I? But damned if they privateer captains be any better than an honest pirate's. He were an evil fucker and so we rose up like any self-respecting crew would. Means I'm marked for the noose now, so I need a ship, Captain Jack Rackham. Take me with you."

With that, the stranger stepped out of the shadows into the flickering circle of yellow light.

"Oh," said Jack. "Well, that is interesting."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Anne. "No."

The figure wore wide-legged pantaloons, a loose shirt tucked into the high waistband, a short blue jacket frayed at the cuffs and a knitcap pulled down low. A veritable sailor indeed. There was just one anomaly that Jack could see. As a fine study of the human specimen, and one who had spent his entire adult life fighting alongside Anne, there could be no doubt in his mind—in anyone's—that this particular ex-privateer was a woman. 

She didn't seem to be trying to hide the fact in any way; she was broad-shouldered and tall, but her shirt fell open to reveal the curve of her bosom and her black curls streamed out from under her cap like seaweed trailing from a boat. She was bronzed as any man who spent his days toiling under the hot sun and above a vast mirror of water, yet the set of her chin was soft and her skin clear and smooth. She was no delicate beauty, her grey eyes too wide set, her lips too thin, but the same eyes held a sharp intelligence and the same lips seemed to smile even at rest and Jack, understanding that he really ought to know better, felt his cock stir.

He took half a step towards her, Anne's hand on his elbow either a warning or remonstration. Jack edged towards the latter.

"What's your name?"

"Mary. Mary Read."

"So, Mary Read, perhaps you could explain to me why I, having the great good fortune to count as my partner the most fearsome woman in these waters," he turned to smile at Anne, unfazed by the scowl she returned him, "possibly the world…should wish to take one in need of protection at a time when my attention is needed elsewhere? Most of my crew are gentlemen as far as it goes, but there's no accounting for all of them and I simply do not have the stomach for punishing my men for the sake of a stranger."

Anne's grip tightened on his elbow.

Mary folded her arms and her lips curled in scorn. "Need protection? Me? Do you see this sword at my belt? I've knives too, and guns. I've been scrapping my whole life, been in wars, survived being pressed into a pirate crew, killed I don't know how many. I'm an asset, Jack Rackham. I en't no burden."

And apparently a little bloodthirsty forthrightness was all it took. Jack shifted his weight uncomfortably and was about to extend his hand to welcome Mary aboard. But then-

"We don't need you," said Anne, grip so tight that Jack winced. "You can fight. Good. Fight your way onto another ship."

"Er, now wait." Jack contorted his body into some sort of apology in Mary's direction. "Let me have a quiet word with my partner here."

Mary shrugged and Anne allowed Jack to shove her a few steps distant along the sand.

"If you could see fit to not permanently crippling my arm?"

Anne let go. "We don't need her, Jack."

"I know that. But it's the right thing to do. Imagine if that were you standing there in the shadow of the hangman, pleading for passage off the island. How could anyone refuse that?"

"Don't fucking plead to no one."

Except Max, Jack thought, the spite still rippling across his skin despite the fact that Anne and Max hadn't shared a bed for a good long while and he had resigned himself to his place in Anne's life for longer.

"All right, then. Asking for passage with gruff reluctance as a last resort. Does that work for you? You're still the toughest, Anne."

Jack was rewarded with one of Anne's rare smiles for that. Fuck, but she was the best woman alive. 

"Too right," she said. "And we're a team, you and me. Partners. That doesn't get shaken no matter what, we've seen to that. And taking her would be like saving a working animal from slaughter, I suppose. You don't kill a horse because his master died."

"Whatever you say."

"Just don't give away all our secrets when you fuck her."

"What?" The light across Anne's face wavered as Jack stumbled an involuntary step backwards.

Anne actually grinned this time. "I know you best, Jack, and don't you go forgetting it. She's already got you on the hook. Won't take much to reel you right in." The grin vanished. "I mean it. We got lots to lose. Don't lose it for us up some woman's cunt."

Jack would protest that he'd had lots of women since Anne and never spilled their secrets before, but it would have been a lie and Anne knew it. Aside from the occasional threesome when Max and Anne were feeling generous, his sex life had been arid as a desert. Strangely, it hadn't even occurred to him that something was missing. Anne was still by his side, after all.

"I will endeavour to live up to the high standards you set for me," he said instead. "Shall we?"

Anne nodded and the pair returned to the newcomer, who seemed to be comparing weapons with Mr Mortimer, one of the younger members of their crew. 

"Put it away, boy," said Anne. "You know she's seen bigger."

Mortimer's bold posturing disappeared in an instant, neck swallowed by shamed shoulders. Jack understood the impulse, of course, none better. It was a hard life, living and dying by Anne's approval, but he'd chosen his own path freely. The boy would grow out of it, or not, and the world would continue to turn.

"Mary, if you would join us in the boats? Let's get the fuck away from this pirate forsaken, beautiful hellhole. There's work to do." He watched her face carefully for any hint of a reaction beyond simple pleasure or relief. There was nothing to be seen but a smile that seemed to stretch the whole width of her face. 

"You won't regret it," she said, more to Anne than to Jack. "I en't afraid of hard work and I'll do right by you for saving my life."

"Good."

"Delightful, delightful, lovely to see you ladies bonding. Now could we move?"

Jack, four years a captain and still hopeful of being obeyed rather than assured of it, was relieved to find himself once more upon the water. They'd taken what was theirs—and, yes, someone else's—and now they had to keep it.

***

The next morning Jack woke to find himself alone. Given they'd strung an extra hammock for Mary in the captain's cabin he and Anne shared, this fact was somewhat alarming. He heaved himself out of bed with a sigh, unsure of whether it would be worse to find them fighting or fucking. It didn't even occur to him that there could be a third possibility, which was why he found himself staring in stunned silence as Mary berated the cook about the lack of seasoning in his pottage, appealing to Anne for support.

"She's right. You're a shit cook. But it's not like none of us know better and we need to eat."

Mr Paduchuri squared his shoulders. "It was not a position I begged for," he said. "And you don't buy me what I ask, so you get shit. My mother would be deeply sad if she knew."

"What do you ask for?" Mary tossed a liberal hand of salt into the pottage and gave it a stir.

"Better spices. Cloves, cardamom, some cinnamon. Nutmeg!" The cook's expression took on a dreamy look.

"I like the way you think." Mary whirled around and pointed at Jack. He blinked rapidly, unsure how she'd known he was there. 

"Now, Captain, how do you expect your poor cook here to make meals fit for the likes of the crew of the _Colonial Dawn_ if all he has is a fistful of salt and the smallest scrunch of pepper? En't no cook on God's clean Earth can work miracles."

Jack bridled outwardly at her accusation, though his fingers twitched with secret delight. "I applaud your passion, Miss Read," he said, "but spices are a horrible expense and we have to choose where to spend our money wisely. Little point in having a good dinner if we're to be taken by the Navy because we didn't resupply our shot."

"Least you'd hang happy," Mary said.

"She's got a point," Anne agreed. 

Jack narrowed his eyes at Anne. She met him stare for stare and he noted a faint glimmer of amusement playing across her face. "Oh for fuck's sake!" He threw up his hands. "Fine, fine, we'll see what we can do at the next port. I make no promises, mind you."

"Thank you, thank you," said Mr Paduchuri, bowing repeatedly in the way that always made Jack feel uncomfortable, even though he knew it shouldn't.

"There," said Mary. "That weren't so hard, were it?" She tasted the pottage and made a face that could have said, no still shit, or, okay vaguely edible. 

Jack wanted to kiss her. He mentally slapped his own face.

"Yes, well. I have work to do. Anne, are you coming or do you have more cooking lessons to take?"

"Fuck off, Jack," said Anne, but went with him anyway.

The rest of the day passed smoothly enough, the only waves created by the ship as it sliced the water and not by the shenanigans of the newest crewmember. Jack allowed himself to relax until he spooned down his dinner in record time and was met with a knowing smile from Mary. 

"Want more?" 

Jack wiped the corners of his moustache. "No second dip at the pot unless there's enough for us all. You should know that."

"Oh, I do. Weren't saying as you could have more. More like ascertaining your desire."

Jack kept his eyes on his plate, only too aware where they would drift were he to look up. "Yes, well, point duly made, thank you. My compliments to the cook, of course."

Mary took the plate from him without another word and Jack couldn't resist watching her go, grateful that her loose breeches hid the curves he was sure lurked beneath. This wasn't the end of it, he knew. What would the intrepid Miss Read do next?

He didn't have to wait long to find out. Jack was not a captain who enjoyed twiddling idle thumbs and went out each morning with his boatswain to inspect the ship, learning far more about her sails and rigging than he would from sitting in his cabin and receiving dry reports of damage. It was during such an inspection the following morning when he noticed Mary and the sailing master in impassioned discussion. Motioning the boatswain quiet, he leaned on the foremast stay, listening.

"I en't saying there's no job for a spritsail, though, am I? Just that there's no need to be full square-rigged if you want to get the best out of this beauty, speed and manoeuvrability-wise. A little touch of fore and aft. That's the way of the future."

"A spritsail goes upon the spritsail yard. It is tradition and it works well enough."

"Yeah, that it do until you want to see anything in front of your face." Mary took a step forward until she was a mere inch from the sailing master's face. "Fuck tradition. What's it ever given to us, eh? Tradition said I were only worth supporting if I were a lad. So I was one. The best I could be. And then tradition said if I wanted to be a woman again I must put down my guns and take up skirts and be beholden to men for a future I never asked for. Fuck that. Fuck it sideways, backwards and up its fucking arse. You need a jib. That's that."

As the sailing master seemed frozen at the point of choice between apoplexy and stunned silence, Jack decided that perhaps this might be an appropriate time to step in.

"And what's a jib?"

Mary's head jerked round and she fell back a step. "En't you lot behind the times?" She gestured towards the bowsprit. "You extend out with a jibboom, see? Then you rig her with triangular sails that set on the forestay."

"To what purpose?"

Mary shook her head. "It en't obvious? You been in schooners en't you? You see how they bear up to windward when the winds are light. How's that work for you in this old bird? She don't like it, do she? But she'll like it a bloody sight more with a jib or three."

She turned back to the sailing master. "Keep your spritsail if you love it so much, but you give the staysails a try. You won't regret it."

"I'll regret it sure enough if the upthrust rips the bowsprit from the prow."

"Smarter'n you look, you. We got solutions for that, never you fear. Give me a bit of chain and a spar and I'll sing you the song of the bobstay and the dolphin striker."

Mr Heyn's face contorted with an expression Jack had never seen on him before. With some surprise he realised it was the tiniest tendrils of burgeoning respect. Grudging, most certainly, and hidden behind a thick veneer of dislike, but respect nonetheless. It seemed Mary knew ships like Jack knew scheming.

The sailing master turned to Jack and shrugged in a way that clearly abdicated all responsibility and laid the blame of future disaster firmly at Jack's door for failing to control his guest. "Captain?"

"Captain?" Mary echoed with a bobbing curtsey that was more insolence than deference. "C'mon. What have you got to lose?"

"Timber, canvas, chain and rope to begin with," Jack ticked off on his fingers. "Possibly a man off the widowmaker since presumably you're going to insist on going straight ahead with this wholesale restructuring?"

"I don't mind the work," said Mary. "Can't make a merry widow out of me seeing as how I'm already a widow, rest his beautiful soul."

Undecided whether to tackle the nonsense of that particular idea or the vague and unreasonable sense of jealousy the idea of a beloved dead husband conjured, Jack chose neither. Instead, he said, "Nonetheless, I have a peculiar penchant for maintaining the health and wellbeing of my crew, and that includes you for as long as you choose to remain with us. Perhaps you could refrain from casting yourself upon the waves in the pursuit of a better tack." 

"Suits me."

The sailing master grumbled under his breath. Jack thought it politic not to ask him to speak up.

"Marvellous. Mr Heyn, see to it that she gets what she needs and for god's sake tie a rope round whoever straddles the sprit." Fuck, he wished he hadn't said that because a thousand innuendos crowded his mind and his head was full of unbidden images of just who could straddle exactly what, ropes optional. 

Jack hurried away before he could embarrass himself and locked the cabin door behind him, leaning hard against it and pressing his palms to the cool wood. He closed his eyes, which turned out to be a bad idea as he was assailed with yet more images of Mary, breasts spilling out of her shirt as she bent low over him, perfect round arse in the air as he wrapped an arm around her waist and lowered her onto him, wild hair strewn across the pillow, eyes wide in abandonment as he put his mouth to her and all the while, all the while another pair of eyes. Watching. His own eyes flew open. Fuck.

Anne sat behind the desk, head propped on her hands, regarding him with a dark smile. Her gaze drifted to the unmissable signs of his arousal and then back up to his face. Jack wasn't sure that was better.

"Got you in a right spin, ain't she?"

"No. Yes. No. Fuck." Jack slid down the door to the floor, shoving his head between his knees. "Anne, help me."

"Help you? How?"

Jack raised his head and looked at Anne through bleary eyes. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever met and the best of them all. Loyal, ruthless, kind and brave as any ten fucking lions: the very best. 

"I want to fuck her."

Anne snorted.

"I know, I know. I'm not always as subtle as I'd like to think. It's not just that, though, darling. I…" It was rare that Jack found himself lost for words, but guilt had never been an emotion that he'd found terribly worthy of his time. "Do you remember how it was for me when you first had your, ah, epiphany about what you wanted between your legs? Who you wanted?"

"Yeah."

How Anne could speak without appearing to move a single muscle was something Jack could never fathom.

"Now, I'm not drawing lines of equivalence here, exactly, but I think you should know that, yes, I'd like very much to fuck our new acquaintance, but there's a chance—quite a high one, I might add—that there are other parts of me becoming engaged besides my prick."

"Oh."

"And I feel terrible about it."

Anne got up and came to sit by Jack, nudging him with her shoulder. "Why?"

Jack took her hand. "You know why. You've always been the only one, Anne. Since the day I found you."

"Yeah, but I told you we ain't like that." She squeezed his hand and put it on his knee, letting him go. "It ain't fair to keep you tied to me when I wasn't. When I ain't. You don't need to ask for my permission, Jack."

"But I want to." 

"Fuck, you're messed up. Come here." Anne tugged Jack's head onto her shoulder, gingerly petting at his hair. 

Jack knew he must be a pathetic sight, indeed, for her to gentle him this way and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd put his own desire before hers once before and had almost lost her as a result. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Jack lived for bright days and colourful nights, and life without Anne had proved only to be dull and grey.

"What do you think of our new companion?" he asked, and his head rose and fell with her shrug.

"Got nothing against her," said Anne. "Got nothing much for her either as it goes." Her fingers relaxed, sliding down to rest against Jack's neck. "She ain't afraid. Speaks up. I like that."

"You would," Jack muttered, but he liked it too and knew Anne knew it. "Do you think that the pair of you might see fit to becoming friends? Or pretending to for the good of my health?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Don't really know her yet, do we, as much as your prick wants to pretend it for decency's sake."

Jack smiled, taking Anne's hand and dragging it to his lips to kiss the palm of it. He sat up straight. "A bargain then?" he asked. "I will keep my unruly prick in my breeches for now if you will spend a little more time with Mary and at least make a vague attempt to like her."

"And if I don't? Like her?"

"If there's a choice, Anne, I will always choose you. In fact, I would say that there isn't actually any choice about it at all. It is simply you. Always."

"Good." There was a world in those four letters and Jack heard it all.

Anne stood, offering a hand to Jack. "Course, that's assuming she actually wants to fuck you."

Jack's heart kicked against his ribs. "That," he said, "is a very good point, indeed."

***

The next time Jack saw Anne she was kneeling on a piece of sail canvas, helping Mary mark it out. Mr Featherstone nearly stumbled over the top of them leaving Jack's cabin after their daily meeting.

"Watch where you fucking put yourselves," he snapped, adding in a much more conciliatory tone, "Ladies," as he realised who he was talking to.

Inside the cabin, Jack mentally rewarded his quartermaster for the quick sidestepping. He eyed the open door with interest. So, if he went about his business in here and that business happened to take him towards the door, which he was obviously leaving open for health and fresh air, then anything he heard the two women talking about would be entirely by chance. Not that Jack was averse to eavesdropping if he thought it would earn him an advantage, but in this case it did seem a little…Jack could not quite decide upon the right word to accompany the strange sensation he was feeling. It was as if a hive of bees had made their colony on him, covering every inch with their soft, buzzing bodies, a humming cloud that never stilled for a moment. 

He stood with great care, disturbing neither the women at work nor his invisible bees and picked up a book from his desk. He should return it to the bookcase behind the door, no sense in leaving a mess. Once there, however, the book remained clutched in Jack's hand as he peered through the small slit of the door to the deck beyond. He couldn't see Anne, but there was Mary, kneeling on the canvas, brandishing a wax block like a blade.

"And so I threw my pistol at his head to confuse the bugger and shoved a knife in his neck before he could even get a hand to his holster. Dropped like a stone, gurgling like a fountain, he did. I froze and I might have lost my life right then because his fellows were coming at me with murder in their eyes. But then my boys were there, coming out of the fog, and one of 'em stuck a musket in my hand and one of 'em slapped my back and there we were, fighting them damn Frenchies for our lives. We cleared the whole patrol between us. It weren't pretty fighting, it were ugly and hard, but at the end of it I knew I could take a life and stay standing." 

"Don't think I could be a soldier. Being ordered about. Killing people for other men's reasons."

"You've never killed for Jack's?"

Jack winced. As much as he admired Mary's bluntness, surely she knew enough about Anne to at least attempt a little circumspection?

"S'pose I have. But Jack's reasons were always about us and how we'd prosper. And he's killed for mine. What general ever killed for you?"

"None. And I don't doubt you've the right of it, but it were freedom for me when I needed it. It were food and drink and a wage and comrades and I were grateful."

"What did you call yourself?" Anne sounded genuinely intrigued and Jack's grip on his book loosened a little.

"Mark."

"Makes sense."

Mary said, "That's right, hold that tight and I'll mark it off," which confused Jack until he realised she was talking about the job in hand.

For the next few minutes they spoke only of the intricacies of the jib sail. Jack would have been completely frustrated save for the fact that when Mary knelt just so, her shirt gaped and he could see the swell of her breasts. No harm in looking, he thought, though he wasn't entirely sure his prick was in agreement.

"What about fucking?" Anne's question startled Jack. Presumably she wasn't talking about the long marline needle, which was the last thing he'd heard Mary mention. At least, he hoped not.

"When?"

"When you was a soldier? You had to hide what you was, who you was. Didn't you ever want to, you know…?" Anne left a gap and Mary's grin suggested that there was a lewd gesture in place of a word. Jack knew exactly which one it would be.

"I did. Lord, I did. Mostly I pleasured myself. That I learned long before I went a-soldiering. But there was one man, my beautiful Flemish boy, and I wanted him more than I cared about my freedom. As luck would have it, he wanted me too, though it would've cost him too much to say so." Mary turned away, long hair hiding her face. 

Jack wanted to go to her, tuck the hair behind her ears, tilt her chin to him and look straight into her eyes, stealing all the secrets that belonged in them. It was the same fierce protectiveness that had drawn him to Anne, that had slit her husband's throat. The bees stirred, a buzzing confusion. He couldn't reason with it, couldn't understand how there was room in his heart to feel this way, couldn't make it stop. And, if he were to allow himself a morsel of honesty, did he even want to?

"Go on," said Anne, into the silence. "Stories are supposed to end."

Mary rocked back onto her arse, arms wrapped round her knees and then Anne came into Jack's narrow view, sitting down by Mary's side, close but not touching. Jack recognised the sympathetic set of her shoulders, but was too impatient to hear more to spend time being pleased that his plan might be working.

"I got him alone one night, outside the camp. It were full summer and the dark were hovering just like a blanket and there was this sweet, sweet scent in the air. Jasmine, I think. And it felt safe so I told him I loved him and I knew he loved me. He said it didn't matter what was in our hearts because the army would put us in prison if they knew. Worse, maybe. So I said, let's this be the one time then that we're together and I unbuttoned my breeches, took his hand and put it between my legs."

Anne's laugh was as unexpected as it was loud. "You never."

"I did. And you should have seen my lad's face. He didn't know if he were coming or going." Mary paused, sneaking a sly glance at Anne. "Course, it were mostly coming." And then she laughed, too, and Jack couldn't bear being outside any more. He dropped the book on top of the bookcase and went out to join them.

"Ladies." He greeted them with a nod. "And what are we discussing today?"

Mary and Anne exchanged looks, Mary's headshake barely perceptible. They both looked up at him and shrugged. 

"Your dick," said Anne. "Specifically its prowess. Or lack of."

"Of course." Jack resisted the urge to cross his legs. Clearly this being friends thing was not going to be working wholly in his favour. 

But then Mary looked up at him with a broad grin and said, "En't hardly nothing can't be taught," and Jack was back in the game.

***

"It ain't that we got a problem with a woman aboard, Captain, you know that. We didn't learn it from your…from Miss Bonny, we'd be fools and more besides. It's that she keeps changing things, is what it is."

"Beg pardon, what?" Jack said, jerking his head up, suddenly aware that he was being addressed.

"Miss Read," added the complainant. "Got that new-fangled sail up and you'd think that'd be the end of it but no. Now she's got my crew running drills and greasing the canon even if we just done it back along. She says we're sloppy and there's too many Spanish about to trust to God and luck."

Jack weighed this information, his head tilting side to side. "Yes, well. She's not wrong. And who's to say the order didn't come from me in the first place?"

Mr. Kipping, the gunner snorted, his face immediately sobering against Jack's glare. "Of course, Captain. I'll keep the men right, Captain." He turned and retreated to the gun deck.

"Send Miss Read up," Jack called after him, unable to refrain from adding, "If she pleases." Damn, damn.

He leaned over the poop deck rail, staring down into his ship, leg jittering until he saw her emerge from the hold, squinting up against the sun and raising her hand to him in greeting. He nodded and turned his back, setting his jaw. Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do and there's no point being craven about it.

"Captain?" She was about five steps away, which Jack reckoned was perfect for comfort, but less so for privacy. He beckoned her closer.

"Miss Read," he said, "Mary." He took in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. It comes to something when the women are better men than you, Jack Rackham, he told himself, and the tightening muscles in his back snapped his bones straighter. "Mary, you are a truly magnificent sailor."

"Th-" she began.

Jack held up his index finger. "Ba ba ba ba ba," he said, stopping her in her tracks. "My turn today. Now, I reiterate, you are a truly magnificent sailor, far better than I could ever hope to be. My style, I'm ashamed to admit, does lace good management with a heavy dose of luck. Your own proficiency does not surprise me as even in this short time I have come to see that you are probably quite brilliant at anything you choose to turn your hand to, but it does lead us to a small, somewhat intractable problem."

Mary, obviously attending to his command, merely raised her eyebrows in response. Jack moved a little closer so that he could speak against her ear, gripping the rail to ease his balance.

"I am the Captain of this ship and that means something. To me, at least. That means I must have the respect of my men—most if not all—or they will not follow me on the hunt, when we engage with our enemies, when I tell them that they must go without rum today for there to be rum tomorrow. I must have that respect or it is all over. For me, for Anne, and in this current climate, very probably for them, too." 

For a brief moment, Mary rested her hand on top of Jack's. "What do you need me to do?"

Jack, resisting the urge to recapture her hand and twist her fingers in his, said, "You cannot give my men orders, Miss Read. Or. No. You cannot give them orders that do not at least purport to come from me. In an ideal world you would run every last one of your schemes by me before proceeding ahead at full speed, but I can see that might be a challenge for you. Just." He tapped his fingertips in a brief tune against the wood and turned his head to her, smiling. "Pretend I'm in charge, could you? We'll make landfall soon enough, but until then let us play out this charade of hierarchy."

"Jack, I'm sorry."

Jack had faked enough contrition to know the genuine article when he heard it. He braced himself against it.

"Truly I am. All I ever want is for where I am to be the best it can be. There's already been too much worst. But I never did mean to make you unhappy or look weak to your men. Never. You been good to me when you didn't have to. You en't no black-hearted pirate, no matter what they say of you. You're a kind man, Jack Rackham, and I'd be an thankless shab to harm your standing here." 

She stared at him with those wide, grey eyes and Jack wondered how he was supposed to gather the fortitude to not simply press her to him and kiss her for as long as it would take to circumnavigate the world.

"Good, good," he said instead, with a shooing motion. "Glad to have that sorted. Now, I believe you had some drills to run?"

"Wanna watch?"

"Maybe in a few minutes. I, ah, I have something to attend to first." He didn't, but following close behind Mary at this time, his head full of her, full of desire, would only establish him as her whipped puppy dog in the eyes of his men. 

"Suit yourself." Mary turned to go. She was halfway down the steps when she looked back up at him. Loudly, she said, "What's that? No live shot? Aye, aye, Captain." She nodded, once, then continued on to the gun deck.

Two days, Jack thought. Two more days until they were in a position to make landfall. No doubt Mary would be grateful for the chance to start a new life in Cuba and Jack would get the chance to move past this inglorious crush of emotion he was ensnared in. Two days was nothing.

In fact, it was a little less than two days later when Jack found himself giving the order to strike sail and drop anchor, Mary's jib having given them the lift in speed she had promised. 

"Perhaps," he murmured to Anne, "Perhaps we shouldn't be so quick to send her ashore. She's a far better sailor than I could ever hope to be. Doesn't the ship deserve that?"

"The ship? You always did have a thing for women that could get the job done, didn't you, Jack?"

"All right, all right. I know. We have an important matter in hand and she is our guest, not our crew." Mary was conversing with one of the fiddle players a little way off. Jack hailed her and as she walked over, the musician struck up a tune, a cheerful, scratching melody that he'd never heard before. It was as though she trailed the music from her hair.

Jack shook his head. Enough of these ridiculous fancies. "Miss Read, we have set down about a mile from the Baio de Jagua. There is no port here, but you will find a thriving smuggler's trade. We are sending the cook ashore with his shopping list and thought that as his staunchest supporter you might like to accompany him to find his precious spices. I have no doubt that you will secure the best possible price for them."

"I been in these waters before. I can do that."

"Marvellous." Jack took a deep breath. "Now, here's the thing. We must sail on to complete our purpose. We shall rendezvous with our men, of course, but you should consider the bargain we struck at an end. We have conveyed you to a shore where you are not at risk from the wrath of Great Britain. From here you may find another ship willing to take you, or you could cross the interior to La Habana or Santiago and find passage there. Work, even."

"I en't to come with you?"

It was the first time Jack had seen anything but the utmost confidence on Mary's face and it cut him to the bone. 

Anne said, "Be fair, Mary, this is a delicate time for us. I like you, but I ain't got no reason to trust you. Neither's Jack. We gave you a hand when you needed it and now you got to respect our wishes."

"No, you're right." Mary blinked rapidly and it seemed to Jack that she grew half a head in size. "I'll take good care of your cook, don't you worry. And I'll be right. I always am. How long do I have?"

"They're readying the boat now."

"Can't go like this," Mary gestured at her loose hair. "Tell 'em to hang fire, I'll be ready in a whipswhile." 

"Oh, fuck," said Jack, as soon as she was out of earshot. "Anne, darling, tell me we're doing the right thing."

"We're doing the right thing. And your brain knows that even if your dick don't."

"I know. I _know_. I just wish it didn't feel so…"

Anne squeezed his hand. "You got over worse."

Jack looked down at her and said nothing.

In a mere few minutes, Mary was back beside them. She had her hair neatly stowed in a sailor's plait, held with a bit of rag, and her shirt tied almost to the neck. Her shape was different, too, curves flattened and hidden by the billowing linen.

"Binding," Mary said, catching him staring at her chest. "Done it since I sprouted. Surprised they ever had space to grow, really."

Jack stopped himself before he could stammer out something about her damn fine breasts. He walked her to the boat instead, Anne at her other side.

"Bye, Mary. It's been good, you know, having you around. I hope our paths cross again some day."

Mary reached out and pulled Anne into a hug, tight enough to dislodge the hat from Anne's head. Jack, knowing how reluctant Anne could be about such things, was surprised to see her hands come up and settle on Mary's back. He hadn't thought of the fact that though he was losing a potential lover, Anne was losing a compatriot. She was of two nations, after all, both pirate and woman, a rarity in this world. How precious, then, to find another. How hard to let go.

As Anne disengaged from the hug and straightened her hat, Mary turned her face towards Jack, stretching out a hand. Jack took it, unsure if he should shake it or lift it to his lips. He did neither. They stood for a long moment, looking at each other, the air growing charged and Jack's skin buzzing with it. 

"We en't done," said Mary, fingertips curling across Jack's palm.

This felt like anticipation, not an ending. "No, I don't believe we are."

Somehow, without even noticing it, they'd drawn closer and Jack, unable to resist any more, slid his hand round Mary's neck and kissed her. It was a sweet, simple kiss, much as one might share with a parent or child, but Jack recognised within it the promise of more. Desire swept across him and he pulled away before he wrestled her to the deck and embarrassed himself and everybody else on board with his terrible lack of self-control.

"Get a fucking move on," came the shout up from the boat where cook and a hand waited with less than patience.

Mary leaned over the rail. "Hold your fucking horses, god fucking damn!"

What a woman, thought Jack. God, what a woman.

She started to climb over the rail, rope grasped firmly in her hands. "No goodbyes," she said. "I'll be seeing you." 

"I know," said Jack, and was hardly startled at all by how true that felt.

He watched the little sailing boat until it was out of hailing distance and then turned away from the water.

"Right, lads!" he yelled. "Onwards and upwards. Weigh the anchor and get those sails up. Yes, Mr Heyn, even the fucking jib. We've a job to do."

***

It was another half-day's sail to the western side of the island. They took the narrow strait between it and Cuba, sailing anti-clockwise to avoid the treacherous sand banks. Here was a notorious hunting ground for opportunistic crews, with little room for ships to out-manoeuvre each other once engaged. It was battle or nothing and the _Colonial Dawn_ was swollen with a cargo that kept her sluggish and slung low in the water. Jack sailed his men through on high alert, full watch at all times despite the fading light, gun crew kept at their posts. It would be a tragedy to fall to another's hand so close to their final destination.

They saw no sails and eventually, as the sun began to climb the sky once more, Jack found himself giving out the order to drop anchor. They had arrived. The tranquil sea, turquoise and inviting, was troubled here and there, its surface breaking in shivering motions over darkly shaded shapes; coral reefs that meant they could go no further. Ahead of them, a wide, shallow bay trimmed by white sand that infiltrated tangled root tendrils in haphazard heaps as it gave out into green, dry forest. The Isla de Pinos was well-named, the pine forest stretching unbroken almost from the shore to half-way across the island. From the ship it seemed dense and impenetrable, but Jack knew different. 

He contemplated his next course of action. They were a boat down and that would slow the process of unloading considerably. With luck, they would find the dugout canoes that he and Anne had used the last time they were here. Of course, there was no guarantee they'd even be seaworthy if they were, it had been some years and they far less practised in the art of shipbuilding.

"Do you want to take shore or ship?" he asked Anne.

"Shore."

"Shore, it is. I will join you on the last run and then we shall see how well our memories hold."

Anne gave him an unreadable look. "Right." She patted Jack on the shoulder and went to ready the boat. 

No point in talking to her about the logistics, Jack knew. She would already have it all worked out.

She did, too, it seemed, everyone working to a steady rhythm. The cargo coming up from the hold, passed along forr'ard, lowered steadily into one of the waiting boats, Anne having found the canoes just as Jack had hoped, and then ferried to shore. She had them arriving at staggered intervals so each second was used to its full. On the beach, the crates laid out in neat squares, each identical to the other. There was, no doubt, some plan forming in Anne's mind that went beyond a desire for tidiness and symmetry. 

Jack watched her through his telescope, commanding the crew with no hint of dissent. It would be a fool's errand indeed to attempt to overpower her, take a share of the treasure and somehow escape the island without swift retribution, but greed dulled men's minds and Jack wouldn't have been surprised to see such an endeavour. Nothing happened, though, and Jack's skin heated with pride. If fear was currency, Anne was one of the richest pirates out there. 

Unloading the treasure was swift work; they had the advantages of efficiency, daylight and no constant dread of discovery. The next part would be less simple. Jack rode ashore with the last of the crates, leaving the ship in Mr Featherstone's capable hands. 

He strode up the beach towards Anne. "Darling, I admire your patternwork, but I must admit I am a little disappointed you didn't even attempt to use the crates to spell out my name."

"Arsehole."

He grinned. "Always and forever. Right!" Jack clapped his hands. "Onwards and upwards, yes? How are we going to shift these buggers? One at a time? I'm going to get myself a whole new set of bruises, aren't I?" His shins ached in tired anticipation.

"Been thinking about that. I reckon we can do better. Gonna need some poles, some rope and that leftover sail canvas."

"You're inventing a haulage device?"

"No, I seen it when I was a kid. An old Indian dragging his life down the road. Didn't look like the weight bothered him not at all."

"Well, it's worth a try. Anything I can do?"

"Yeah. This'll only work if that path we cut ain't grown into. Can you remember the place?"

"I can. Do you want me to take a canoe and make sure all is ready?"

Anne merely looked at him. 

"Right, right. On my way."

Some distance to his left, a narrow river gave into the sea. This was where Jack found himself, paddling the canoe with long, easy strokes. It was so quiet here, so peaceful, that even the lightest splash of oar in the water set off the creaks of startled frogs or sent up flurries of parrots, their bright colours splashing the sky with memories of rainbows. The forest crowded the banks, roots grasping for water through the sandy soil, the river dappled with shade. Jack's journey upstream was cool and pleasant, exactly as he remembered it, but it had been three years since he and Anne had last set foot on the island. Who knew what lay ahead?

Eventually he spotted the marker. A dead tree, stripped of its branches and the trunk cleaved in two. He drew in close and leapt for the bank, mooring the canoe to the tree. The path, such as it was, had been years in the making. Parrot Island was a true pirate haven and they had found themselves here often, with whichever crew would have them, since Jack first gave Anne a new family to belong to.

It had been several years since they had last visited, however, and, though no young pines were yet established, at several points, Jack had to hack away lianas that had strung themselves across the path as if trying to stitch the sundered forest back together. _Sorry_ , Jack told them, as he split them in two, the remnants swinging back with a dull rustle, _everyone has to pick a side._

Soon, Jack reached the clearing at the end of the path. He didn't know precisely what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't the small, wooden house looking sturdy and present and exactly as they had left it. Some part of him expected to hear the knocking of a hammer and Charles coming round the corner to tell Jack that the roof would soon be fit to see out the rainy season. 

God. It knocked the wind out of him, like someone had shoved him hard in the chest. Charles. He'd once told Anne that Charles had been someone they'd both survived, but he'd been much more than that. They'd been a team, the three of them, a triumvirate that only worked best when they worked together. Now Charles was in prison, awaiting trial and certain death, a victim of his own anger and hubris. It could so easily have been any of them, Jack knew. It still could.

They'd brought Charles here with them when the Spanish were at their heels, crowding Nassau bay so they couldn't get home without being spotted. Jack and Anne had brought him through the forest to see the makeshift shelter they'd made for themselves on a previous trip. Charles had taken one look at it, said, "We can do better than that," and set them to work.

Jack had scoffed long and hard at Charles's assertion that he could build anything except for a small fleet and aggressive tension. Charles, to his credit, had chosen to use Jack as slave labour rather than punching him in the face for his lack of faith.

He walked over to the house, placing his palm flat against the doorframe. It was strange the way Charles had worked: a mixture of centred calm and sullen resentment. Jack somehow knew without asking that the resentment wasn't aimed towards him or Anne and he valued his own nose far too greatly to ask. Now he would never know where Charles learnt his skills and at what cost.

Jack pushed gently against the door and went in. Inside was a single room, the only light afforded through a square, unshuttered window in one wall and whatever filtered through the simple chimney. Jack stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, his gaze darting about the place. There were the upturned crates they'd used as both chairs and tables, there the dark stain of ashes from the hearth, and there, pressed against the wall in the dimmest corner, the sacking mattress. Jack remembered how he'd complained at Anne's demands to find her more pine needles for stuffing. "My back is too noble for stooping," he'd told her. 

He walked over to the mattress and gave it a thoughtful kick. Plumes of dust rose into the air, choking him with musty scent. Jack coughed, waving his hands in front of his face, ready to take the fight to the invisible. Recovering, he crouched and inspected the mattress more closely. Something, or several somethings, had been making the cover their meal for a while now; it was covered in holes. Most were tiny, but here and there, brown needles protruded through the surface. A most prickly sleeping experience, perhaps, but some people paid extra for that. The sacking was a little damp, but Jack had slept on far worse. It would not be a terrible thing to have to spend a night here.

Jack let his mind drift to the first christening of the mattress, how Anne's face was dark in the shadows, but her body was warm against his. How Charles had told him not to frighten the parrots with his yelling and how all three of them had ended up wrapped up in blankets and telling the tallest tales they could recollect. None of them knew the dissolution of their merry band was so close, how could they? Jack let himself feel grateful on behalf of his former self.

He sighed, getting to his feet. Time to report back to Anne that the plan could go ahead.

***

Jack strolled over towards the group on the beach, lips twitching with amusement. Anne had obviously been hard at work: two of the men were engaged in a race, both equipped with one of her haulage devices. One had the two poles sticking out either side of his neck, gripping the ends, and the other held his lower down, arms behind his bent back. He was ahead, presumably because the tips of his poles dug less deep in the yielding sand. From this angle it was impossible to see how everything was put together, but from the grimaces and heavy sweating as well as the cheers from the remaining beach crew, Jack was sure they were loaded down with gold.

He drew close just as Amos crossed the makeshift finish line and collapsed in an overdramatic heap.

"Rum!" he cried. "I must have rum! I done me back!" 

"Your back's fine," Anne told the prostrate man. "But you can have rum anyway. For your victory."

Ignoring Amos's feeble cries of triumph, Jack squatted down by the forgotten contrivance, looking it over with a careful eye. It was incredibly simple: two wooden poles crossed at the top, taking the shape of a long, thin, unfinished triangle. The triangle's base was formed by a wide swathe of canvas stretched between the two poles and nailed in place. Three crates were lashed on top of this canvas, set widthways across it.

A shadow fell across Jack and he looked up, squinting, at the cause of it.

"Darling, this is rather clever of you. One man to three crates. That will definitely move things on much faster."

"Hoped for four. Didn't fit."

Jack stood up. "One day you will learn to take a compliment, if it kills me to make you do it. I presume you're going to tell me what happens next?"

Anne looked into the sky, scanned the crates and then turned back to Jack. "Not much daylight left, so I say fire, food and a kip on the beach and up with the lark to get the gold up river."

"Up with the parrots here, more likely. Or the frogs." Once upon a time, Anne's suggestion of fire and food would have been followed by fucking. The empty part of Jack that had never filled since Anne told him she could never be his wife ached at the memory. 

"Do we need to scavenge?"

"Set the men to it already. We're gonna have a nice fish supper."

"Marvellous. You know," said Jack, admiring the apparatus again, "Mary would be proud of your innovation."

From the corner of his eye he caught an odd look on Anne's face, but by the time he looked at her it was gone.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, really, what?" 

"Let's go and get that fire started, shall we?"

"Fine, but…" 

But Anne was already walking away. Jack frowned in thought before striding after her. What could he have said to make her look so peculiar? 

After supper, and what seemed to Jack an interminable and not at all frightening ghost story, they settled for the night, setting watch on the gold. Jack had no real concern that they would be set upon by opportunistic plunderers, but he remembered well enough that once they had been the opportunists. It was wise to play it safe. Besides, nights were long and there was plenty of time for sleep and sentry duty both. 

Jack took first watch, sitting himself upon one of the neat squares of crates, face lifted to the soft, onshore breeze. If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear the creaking of The _Colonial Dawn_ as she shifted in the quiet swell. The pale moon hung in the sky, sister to the forgotten fingernail Jack had not long ago bitten off and spat into the sand. Jack let his eye drift along the Milky Way, a river to some, a road to others, but to him tonight, a streaming tress of hair. Cut, perhaps, from some goddess as punishment or as a keepsake. Perhaps even both. Perhaps some god was even now roaming the skies, patting his pockets and cursing the loss of it. Jack patted his own pocket absently, momentarily confused by its emptiness. There was only a memory of warm skin and dry lips, of wide grey eyes and a promise. Memories never filled a pocket yet.

Oh, Jack, he said to himself. What have you done now? Mooning over a woman you barely know is not a forward step from mooning over one you know too well. 

"Told you we weren't done," said Mary, conjured from shadows and desire, nudging Jack's shoulder with weightless good humour. "I'll let you tumble me, Jack Rackham, if you like. Maybe you'll even find yourself inside me, my lost lamb. We'll have fun either way, won't we?"

Jack groaned. "Mary, you'll be the death of me, I swear." 

"No, darling, love is life, not death."

"Who said anything about love?"

Mary laughed. "You did, Jack. Everything I say is you." 

"Well, fuck," said Jack and Mary vanished as swiftly as she had arrived.

***

In the morning, Jack was woken from troubled dreams by a gentle kick from Anne. He squinted up at her, bleary eyed.

"Rise and shine. We got work to do."

"Be civilized, Anne. A little breakfast first?"

"'Course," Anne scoffed. "We ain't savages."

Slowly, awareness crowded in and Jack's nostrils twitched with the scent of roasting fish. He rolled himself upright. "You have been busy."

Anne shrugged. "Watch got boring."

"Fair enough. You sha'n't catch me complaining about such industry." He got to his feet and offered Anne his arm. "Madam, would you care to accompany me to the finest establishment in all of Parrot Island?"

"Twat," said Anne, batting his arm away.

Jack smiled, the knots of tension around wisps of dreaming unravelling and allowing the disquiet to drift away.

Breakfast was a swift, cheerful meal. Amos and Mr Collier almost came to blows over who was to have the last fish, but Jack solved that problem by giving it to Yaakov, the smallest and youngest of them all.

"Thanks, Cap'n."

"Yes, well." Jack looked him up and down. He was scrawny, yet wiry, unkempt, but with sharp eyes. "We have much to do today. Everyone must be at their best."

"Soft shite," whispered Anne.

Jack ignored her.

The plan was relatively simple. Row the gold upriver to the marker tree, unload and drag to the clearing by the house. From there, it would be no one's business but Jack's. The first part of the job was tough. They had to move the crates only a scant half-mile to the mouth of the river, but the sand gave no steady footing, making the concept of balance entirely notional. The risk of sprains and broken bones soared with each load carried. The outgoing tide left a strip of wet, dense-packed sand behind it and Jack ordered crates lashed to the contraptions and hauled along this widening path. It was easier, but not by much, and Jack was grateful when that part was over and all his men still had use of their legs.

The next stage was to transport the devices upstream together with men to operate them. Once again, Jack left Anne in charge on the beach and took charge of a canoe. This journey was far different than yesterday's. The damned poles were troublesome in that they could not be easily stowed and this led to shouts of alarm as one accidentally rammed the other canoe, or got bitten by a crocodile who was scared off only by a pistol shot. There was no peaceful listening to nature. Nature was in a full tilt meltdown with all the yelling confusion Jack and his crew were bringing.

_It's going to be a hard day for you,_ Jack thought, watching yet another flurry of birds wheel in the sky. _What a piece of work is man, indeed._

At the marker, Jack ordered the canoes to shore. Once the men and apparatus were safely on the bank he sent the boats back downriver. Whilst they waited for the gold to begin arriving, Jack had Amos and Mr Bowen test the ability of the devices to reach the clearing. In some places they squeaked by with only a whisker's space to spare, but it was manageable enough for which Jack sighed in relief. 

"That your house?" said Amos.

"Yes."

Amos nodded, lips pursed in thought. Eventually he said, "I like it."

"Me, too," said Jack. "Me, too."

Silence fell for a moment as they all stared at the little wooden house, so incongruous in an island almost entirely consumed by nature. Then Jack clapped his hands to the irritation of birds in the surrounding treetops, squawking vociferously in response. 

"Right, lads. Back to the river. No time to play house today."

"Lads?" Mr Bowen's voice was laden with scepticism.

"No? Not lads? Right, right." Jack sighed and added 'calling crew lads' to the mental list of things other captains managed to pull off and he failed at doing. "Back to the river, men," he tried, and brightened as they obeyed instantly.

It didn't take long for the first gold to arrive. The canoes were hauled in tight and held still whilst the gold was lifted with great care and slid onto the bank. Each canoe carried three crates and, once emptied, slipped away back downstream. Meanwhile, Jack and his men lashed the crates to the contraptions as Anne had shown them and began the somewhat bumpy journey back along the path. Once there, they stowed the crates inside the house.

"This where you're hiding it, like?"

Jack shook his head. "Merely a temporary storage solution. Alas, the final resting place of our treasure will require yet more labour. Luckily for you, but not for my poor, bruised legs, that rests with me."

"You not gonna tell us where?"

"Plausible deniability, my dear fellow. If I am the only person who knows where it is, then you cannot possibly accidentally give away its location under torture and thus ruin the fortunes of not only you, but your brothers."

"You could."

"That is a fair point. But someone needs to know where it is and I'm the captain, so that's the decider, I'm afraid."

Mr Bowen frowned, obviously unconvinced.

"Tell you what," said Jack. "Do your very best to stop me being captured and tortured by any of our many, many enemies and all will be well.

Amos nudged his friend. "Don't sweat it," he said. "Captain wouldn't cheat us. Think of this like our bank. We got money to draw on with Mr Featherstone, right? The gold that got left. And then, when that well runs dry, we make a withdrawal from this bank, see?"

Jack wagged a finger at Amos. "Strong and smart. I like you."

Amos looked at Jack, his dark face impassive. "If you cheated us I'd snap your neck." He lifted his knee and mimed breaking something over it.

Jack swallowed. "Good to know," he said. "But I still like you anyway."

They made the trek back to the river and began all over again. The remaining trips took what was left of the day. Anne arrived with the last canoe and climbed up onto the riverbank.

"All clear," she said. She leaned down and took something the man in the canoe was holding up. She offered it to Jack. "Here, thought you could use this."

"A shovel." Jack took it with a grimace at the work ahead of him. "Thank you, Anne. I shall treasure it always."

"Thought I'd take a look at the old place."

"Of course," Jack bowed and gestured along the path. "Merely follow the grunting men."

"You're bored shitless, ain't you?"

Jack shouldered the shovel. "You have no idea."

It was only as they neared the clearing that Jack, happy as always to be in Anne's company, happier still to call an end to the tedium of the day, began to consider where they were actually going. Making a feeble attempt to push blooming memories down, Jack could feel the familiar buzzing begin. It centred in his palms and he tried to surreptitiously rub his free hand against his thighs, willing the irritation away. But it only grew stronger. The last time he and Anne had been here they had been in love, or so he'd thought. They'd fucked and held each other and plotted together in their house that Charles had built them and Jack had thought they'd take over the world. Partners, Anne called them now, and Jack had resigned himself to it, grateful she gave him a place in her life at all. But to go back to the only home they could truly call their own with everything changed and yet nothing changed? This would be hard to bear, indeed. Jack tightened his grip on the shovel and walked on.

"Fucking hell, it ain't changed a bit." Anne quickened her pace and disappeared into the house before Jack had time to reply. 

He considered following her in, immediately thought better of it, and set to helping Amos and Mr Bowen free the final crates. He carried one in, avoiding looking at Anne who stood shadowed in a corner, that being practically the only floor space remaining. He made another trip, and then there was no more gold to move and he could run like a coward or lift his head and look at her.

He lifted his head. Anne shifted, enough to be illuminated in a shaft of light from the door. Her lips held a hint of a smile and her eyes were unfocused and dancing. Either she was in another place or another time. No matter which, she wasn't here. Jack let himself take her in, his Anne: strong yet brittle, never tame, more hedgepig than woman sometimes, more loyal than he'd a right to and as beautiful as the rising sun. He readied himself against the wrenching twist of loss that this juxtaposition of person and place should bring.

It didn't come. Instead his whole body suffused with heat, the warmth of a long held affection. Why run from the memories and cower from the possibility of pain? Their past would always be part of who they were, who they came to be. As for who they were to each other now, apparently Jack had made peace with it when he wasn't looking.

Well, well, he told himself. I have grown as a person. Isn't that marvellous?

"Anne," he said and she blinked herself into the present. "Darling, do you remember the time we woke up to find a crocodile sharing our bed?"

The hint of a smile came to life. "Never seen you move so fast. Left your naked woman alone with a dangerous reptile."

Jack smirked. "You were alone with one all night. Also I was going for my weapon as well you know."

"My hero," said Anne, deadpan.

Jack strode over to her, gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes, face as serious as he could muster. "I know."

Anne rolled her eyes and warmth rolled across Jack's body yet again.

"I'm going to say something emotional now," said Jack. "So brace yourself."

For a brief moment, Anne looked wary, shoulders stiffening under Jack's hands. Jack couldn't blame her. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried to change her mind on bad days full of rum and regret. Then she relaxed into a ready stance, anticipating, waiting. Jack slid his hands down Anne's arms taking her hands in his. Her fingers spasmed, barely curling into his palms.

"Anne Bonny, you are the truest and best companion I could have ever hoped for. I am grateful every day that you choose to allow a wretched dog such as I to share your path through life. It has nothing to do with whether you allow me between your legs or no, though you can be forgiven for thinking that as a result of my past entreaties." He felt her fingers tightening and gripped harder in response, still gazing into her eyes and letting her read his truth there.

"Our souls, if we still possess them, belong together, Anne. I see that, now. It was never about husband and wife, it was always about Jack and Anne. It will always be about Jack and Anne. No matter who we find to fuck us blind and stupid—and god, I do hope that someone does—it will always come back to this: I love you as part of myself. No conditions."

Anne said nothing, leaning forward until her forehead rested against Jack's shoulder. She squeezed his hands and they stood quietly together. Jack couldn't remember the last time he had been so at peace. 

"Not to interrupt such a delicate moment," said Amos, "but what do we do now?"

"Oh, for f-" Jack began, but Anne interrupted without moving from her place. 

"Take a canoe and go back to the beach. All men to the _Dawn_. I'll signal for the jolly in the morning."

Amos raised his eyebrows at Jack.

"Yes, yes, what she said," he said testily. "And tell Mr Featherstone to keep her ready to sail. We've a rendezvous to make."

"Aye aye," said Amos and vanished from Jack's sight. 

Jack heard him relay the message to his companion and then the pair of them walking away, the crunching of pine needles underfoot gradually quietening into silence. They were alone.

Anne mumbled something into Jack's shoulder. It sounded very much like, "You are the best of men, Jack," and he decided to go with the swelling heart that produced rather than ask her to repeat herself and risk deflation. Besides, she was already straightening and loosing his hands: the moment had passed.

She reached into the bag slung at her hip and drew out a flagon of rum. Unstoppering it, she took the first swig and then passed it to Jack. "Here's to a successful mission."

Jack took a long pull and grimaced. They really needed to invest in better quality rum. "You say that like it's finished," he complained. "I suppose it is for you, swanning off to collect the cook. I'll be here putting all this gold to rest all by myself. You will return to find me a shattered man, fit for nothing but to be fed nourishing gruel."

"Good thing I'm bringing Mr Paduchuri back then, ain't it?" said Anne without a single shred of sympathy. "Nourishing gruel's his specialty."

"Nothing is his specialty. Now, shall we see about a fire? And possibly some food?"

They used the last of the daylight hunting for firewood and something more substantial than hard tack and jerky. Jack closed the door ("against marauding crocodiles") and smoke from the small fire curled in the air as it rose towards the vent below the roof. It was a warm evening even without the fire, and he and Anne sat enthroned among the crates of treasure in their shirtsleeves, passing the flagon between them as they waited for dinner to be ready.

"We had some good times here, didn't we?"

Jack nodded his agreement. 

"Remember that storm?"

"The one where Charles was finishing the roof and refused to come down?"

"Yeah, and you jumping around like a flea at his ankle telling him if he got struck you wasn't going to bury the body of an idiot."

"To be fair to me, he was being an idiot and the storm was coming our way."

"Yeah. And then there was the biggest flash and crash yet and he tumbled down right on top of you. And you rolled him off and started patting at him all frantic. 'Charles, Charles! Don't die on us!'" Anne gave a short laugh. "And him stiff as a board all the while."

"The little shit," said Jack. "He had me so concerned."

"Shoulda checked his heartbeat."

"Well, I know that now. All I knew then was him waiting until I got as close as possible to his apparently dead face before wrenching his eyes open, all white on show, and punching me in the side. Laughing."

"You was a picture, though, Jack. Didn't know if you should be angry or relieved."

"I would have punched him back if the rain hadn't started coming down that second."

"Course you would."

Jack doubted Anne's sincerity. "Still, there we were, the three of us, safe inside the house Charles built us, listening to the rain pound the finished roof. That was when he told us about his father, I think."

"Yeah, it was."

They reminisced until late into the night, moving to the mattress as the fire dimmed. 

"Just as lumpy as I remembered," Jack said.

"Twice as prickly," said Anne. "Bloody hell."

"Here." Jack slid his arm round Anne's shoulders. "Feel free to use me as a pillow."

"You're too bony."

"Bony or prickly, darling. Take your choice."

Anne grunted, fidgeting until her head slotted neatly into the notch between Jack's shoulder and collarbone. 

"Bony it is, then. You'll forgive me if we don't stay up all night like the old days. I've much to do tomorrow and my shins are already aching in anticipation."

"You and your bloody shins."

"Yes, that's rather the point."

"Shut up, Jack."

"Absolutely."

Jack twisted a lock of Anne's hair round his finger, rested his cheek against the top of her head and fell very soundly asleep.

***

"Should only be a day," said Anne, pulling on her coat. "Two at most. I'll come and find you here. Try not to get into trouble."

"I shall do my very best. There shouldn't be any surprises at this end, at least."

"Surprises?"

"You know. Voices in the dark. Unexpected passengers with very strong views on sail plans. That kind of thing."

"Oh." Anne gave Jack a sideways glance. "Right. No. But be careful, Jack. We ain't the only ones who use this island."

"Which is why we're not sticking to the sea caves. We've been through this, don't worry."

"I don't. Most of the time. But there's been a lot of death on account of this gold and there'll probably be more. Don't let it be you."

"Your concern is touching," said Jack, the deep sarcasm lacing his voice belied by the brief hug he pulled Anne into. "Look after our ship and tell Cook I expect him to produce something spectacular with all those spices he's supposed to be bringing us."

"He better." Anne opened the door. "Day's wasting, Jack. Hop to it."

"Aye, aye," he replied and she tipped her hat and walked away.

As soon as she was out of sight, Jack began his arduous task. There was no way he could drag one of Anne's contraptions beyond the clearing; the forest was too dense. No, he would have to take one crate at a time. Jack was no stranger to hard work, but there were limits and he was about to meet one head on. He sighed, cracked his knuckles and got to it.

The first few crates were stowed in a cave a few minutes walk from the house. Too narrow and low to sleep in, they'd used it before as a hiding place. Sadly, there was no way it could fit in all of the treasure and after trudging back and forth several times, Jack picked up the shovel and went to mark out his first hole. 

It was whilst he was digging the third hole, hot, sweating and cursing in a steady stream under his breath, that Jack began to have the queerest feeling that he was being watched. He stilled, straightening as slowly as he could, scanning the trees for any signs of life. The island had been abandoned by its native inhabitants long since, scared away by Columbus and his ships; there were no permanent settlements here. That others of a similar bent used the island to refit and repair as Anne had pointed out was a certainty, but they tended to stick to the mountains of the south. This was one of the reasons they'd chosen the western forest as their own hideout: the chances of discovery were far less. 

He could see nothing, but the sensation lingered, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Still moving like molasses, Jack turned round and found himself staring into a pair of black eyes set in a white face. He let out a long, relieved breath.

"Well, hello," he said. "I should inform you that you need to be grateful that I am not of the same suspicious nature as many of my fellows or you should find yourself very dead indeed." He narrowed his eyes. "You aren't the spirit of a dead Charles Vane, are you? He hasn't been summarily dispatched to meet his Maker whilst we've been on this little adventure? You are, in point of fact, a large, furry rodent who hasn't learned to run from the likes of me."

The rodent blinked, nose twitching as it sniffed the air with what Jack swore was an air cousin to disdain.

"Thank you for the review. I admit to being a little musky, but you try burying treasure in this weather. You'd be ripe, too. Shoo! Go on. Go and find something better to do."

But the little animal did not move, even when Jack lunged towards it with his most practised bloodcurdling grimace. Jack shrugged. "Have it your way, Charles," he said, turning back to his digging. "That's your name now, like it or not, if you choose to stay. Let me catch you up on the life and times of John Rackham, my friend. Fair warning, it's a long and twisty tale."

To Jack's surprise, once the hole was finished and he began the trek back to the house for a crate to deposit in it, Charles followed behind, leaping from tree to tree before scurrying down a trunk to waddle at his heels. 

"No one has ever found me this interesting before," said Jack. "Do you think I have food for you? Do you think I am food?" 

Charles, of course, said nothing, and Jack picked up his narrative from where he'd left off. He was most of the way through his task, and had reached his meeting with Vane ("Your namesake"), when he recognised that the light was waning and abandoned his hole half-dug.

"I'm for bed," he told the rodent. "Up with the sun to finish this off. Run along now, Charles. Time to get back to your family, assuming you have one. I must admit I have appreciated the company. An uncritical listener is its own treasure." He gave a little bow, grateful that no one could see him, stuck his shovel firmly in the ground beside the hole and started home. 

After only a few strides, Jack realised that Charles was still plodding along with him.

"Oh, another one that ignores my orders," he said. "How wonderful and not at all depressing that I can't even get a fucking rodent to be even slightly frightened of me. I don't know why I get out of bed in the mornings, I really don't."

Charles squeaked. 

"I accept your apology." It occurred to Jack that if he'd reached the stage of attributing meaning to squeaking animals possibly he was not safe to be left alone. "Come on then, Charles. Dinner is on me."

Jack shared his meagre rations with Charles, pointing out that if he'd wanted a feast he'd have been better off staying in the forest. Jack might be a purveyor of riches, but they were not the kind to appeal to the forever hopeful rodent. He continued his life story, the vastly reduced number of crates providing excellent illustrations of several of his anecdotes.

"And that, my dear fellow, is how I came to gain a fortune, but lose the real treasure I had." Jack lay back on the mattress, hands behind his head. "No, no, that's not fair. Anne was never a prize to be won. And she most certainly is not lost to me. Can I tell you a secret?" He looked at the black eyes, still sparkling in the low firelight. "I would trade every ounce of this treasure for her health and happiness. Without question. Oh, you think that makes me a doting fool, do you, Charles? Don't give me that. Your biggest decision is whether to eat bark or put the extra effort in to track down a flavoursome frog. We're not operating at the same level, here."

Charles's only response was to waddle over to the mattress, jump onto it with a surprisingly light hop and nuzzle into Jack's side.

"Oh, no," Jack said, scooping the rodent up and depositing him back onto the floor. "A little warmth for you, a hundred fleabites for me. I'd rather not."

But Charles was not so easily deterred and Jack found himself drifting off to sleep with a different companion than the previous night, smaller, hairier and much less given to snoring. 

Jack woke to find Charles gone. He had left the window unshuttered to give the little creature a route of escape, so it shouldn't have surprised him that he'd taken it. Still, Jack felt a stab of disappointment at being alone once more. 

"Jack," he told himself, "You rely on no man and no rodent. Get the fuck up and get on with it."

His first task was to refill his water bottle from the stream that ran a little way beyond the house. Birds jabbered at him from their branches as he stooped and splashed his face. At least he couldn't complain that it was too quiet without the sound of his voice filling the air. Bottle full, he retraced his steps to the unfinished hole of the previous day. He freed the shovel and was about to dig when he caught a flash of movement and looked into the hole to see two black eyes staring up at him.

"Charles!" He peered closer at the white face and brown body. "It is Charles, isn't it? I'm no expert on the colouring of your kind."

In answer, the rodent hopped out of the hole and settled himself on a nearby rock. 

"I can't but think that at some point in your little life you must have taken a rather severe blow to the head," said Jack. "That, or you have an insatiable appetite for a good yarn. I know for a fact that you can't be the spirit of Charles Vane or you would have bitten me long since for rattling on. Still, I shall not look a gift rodent in the mouth. Let me tell you what happened once Max bought Nassau."

Jack worked hard, both at tale-telling and digging, and by mid-afternoon all was done. The treasure was safely hidden or buried and Jack had marked each spot with a secret sign only he or Anne could read. Ever since the sun had passed across the zenith he had been half expecting her to appear at any moment, but as yet there was no sign. He took stock.

"Well, Charles," he said to the rodent, "It seems as if my work here is done. I am sweaty, filthy, itching like hell and it feels as though I have half the island soil in my boots. In conclusion: I need a bath. Come along."

Back at the stream, Jack stripped with singular efficiency, tipping sandy soil and pine needles out of each boot into a neat pile that Charles immediately rooted through with his nose. The water was cool and clear, if not deep, and Jack lay back in it, ignoring the rocky bed and the slim potential of nosy crocodiles. He let the stream bubble over his face, washing the dirt away and soothing his aching muscles. He could stay like this forever, he thought, no concerns, no worries, only simple, clean coolness. 

A few minutes later it occurred to him that Anne could well be waiting back at the house and she would not be best pleased were he to be holding them up for the sake of a wallow. With a grumble, he climbed out of the stream, gathered his clothes and other paraphernalia and walked back to the house with his faithful companion plodding along behind him. He could dry on the way. 

The door stood open. So she was here. 

"Don't be frightened, little one," he whispered to Charles. "She's all right, this one."

He leaned the shovel against the wall and they went in.

"Now there's a greeting I weren't expecting. Hello to you, too, Jack. All of you."

Jack hid his nakedness as best he could and wished fervently that the water in the stream had been just a little warmer.

"Hello, Mary," he said, the sweet coolness of a moment ago swept away by the invisible bees colonising his bare skin, prickling his hairs into life. "Fancy seeing you here." 

Mary rose from the upturned crate she was sitting on and Jack cringed as though making himself smaller could somehow protect his modesty. He crab-walked to the opposite side of the cabin, keeping his bare arse away from those amused eyes. Somewhere Anne was laughing at him and telling him he never used to be so fucking prudish. 

Anne. Jack's blood ran cold. Anne had gone to meet the cook and now Mary was here in her place. Mary, whom she had wanted kept ignorant of the plan and for good reason. _We barely know her, Jack,_ she'd said, and she'd been right. What if this had been in Mary's mind all along? A little flirting, a little murder, a lot of treasure.

"If you don't mind the question, how the fuck did you get here?"

"On a boat." For the first time, Mary's smile had no effect on Jack.

"Yes, yes, very witty. How came you here, Miss Read?"

Mary's face went very still. Jack could see the precise moment she cottoned on to his concerns.

"Oh, God, Jack. Anne brought me. She sent me to you. I promise."

"Why?"

"There was trouble in Cacicazgo. Some gutless curs tried to cheat Mr Paduchuri for some spice that were nation bad."

"Terrible?" guessed Jack, extrapolating from her downturned lips.

"Nation bad, yeah. So he called them what they were, they took offence at having their reputations impugned and it got ugly. I took issue with the unfairness of the fight and slit their fucking throats. We found a more honest seller after that. Cheap too, I don't know but why. I tried to leave, truly I did, Jack, but Cook wouldn't let me out of his sight. He told me to come along to the rendezvous and so I did. He told Anne the whole story and they voted on it and now I'm crew."

She took a step towards him. "You're my captain now, Jack. If you'll have me."

Jack swallowed, heart hammering hard enough to pound nails. "Ah, yes," he managed. "Thank you?"

"That's right," said Mary, moving closer. "Did you miss me, Jack?" Her voice was dark, spiced rum, pouring into his ears, his throat, spreading heat through his whole body, the unsettled irritation across his skin smoothing out, diffusing into an altogether more pleasurable thrum.

A sweat broke out on his brow. "I…I…that is…yes."

Mary came closer still, eyes dancing as she smiled. "What, no eloquence, Jack? No ode to my fierceness or beauty? How disappointing."

But she didn't look at all disappointed, instead taking Jack's possessions from his unresisting hands one by one and tossing them to the floor until he stood before her entirely exposed. Jack tried to stand as straight as he could, aiming for nonchalance and knowing he failed miserably. How could he possibly be nonchalant with his desire so obvious? He couldn't hide it; he didn't want to. 

Jack found himself staring down at the top of Mary's head as she bent to take a good look at him. She looked back up, straight into Jack's eyes as she ran a finger along the length of him. Jack shuddered with the pleasure of it.

"Good sturdy stock you got there. You could go places with that."

Jack desperately wanted to quip back, find some sort of rejoinder that would let her know he still had his senses, but his thoughts were as dry as his mouth. All he knew was that he wanted her to keep touching him, wanted to touch her. It was the only thing that mattered.

"Mary, can I…?" he said, hand coming up to rest on the tie of her shirt. His voice sounded thin and needy to his ears but he didn't care.

"You can do whatever you like, love," she said.

Jack didn't need telling twice. Slowly, slowly, he pulled at the string, watching the loop shorten and catch on the knot before coming free with a satisfying thup. He pushed her shirt open, fingertips grazing her skin. It rippled with goosepimples under his touch and Mary made a soft sound that made Jack look back at her face. Her eyes were wide and dark, ringed only with thin circles of grey and her mouth, always smiling, stretched upwards at one corner. Like it was reaching for something, Jack thought.

And he couldn't help himself. He leaned closer and kissed the curve of her lips, hoping that he was what they reached for. Mary opened under him and Jack forgot everything in the shocking delight of it. He slid one hand under the curve of her breast, thumb gliding over her nipple that rose to his touch. Her hips jerked at the caress, the rough fustian of her breeches grazing Jack's prick. He shuddered again and tugged at Mary's shirt. Somehow they kissed and stumbled their way through removing it and then she was half as naked as he.

Jack took her in. Tanned arms, muscles shaped by years of hard work a sharp contrast to her pale, soft breasts, skin tight and puckered round the small peaks of her erect nipples. Ribs broad enough to house her huge heart, the seat of her immense courage. Fuck, but she was beautiful.

"It is my contention that you are wearing too many clothes," he said. "But all my fingers are thumbs, Mary, and you're going to have to help me if we want those boots off by Christmas." 

"Aye aye, Captain," said Mary, and something inside Jack squirmed.

"Don't." He wasn't ready to say, "I'm not your captain here and never will be. You can be mine, if you like," and hoped like hell she would understand anyway.

Mary shrugged. "All right then, Jack. Better?"

"Better."

She stooped to unlace her boots, thick, black plait falling over her shoulder. Jack circled round her, scooping up the braid and pulling out the ribbon. With gentle care he unwound the strands, running his fingers through unruly curls, spreading her hair across her back. He lifted it to his face, burying his nose in it and smelling the faint perfume of some emollient and the clean salt smell of the sea. He let it go as she straightened, one boot after the other thudding onto the floor. Sliding his arms round her waist, Jack rested his chin on her shoulder as he tackled the buttons on her breeches. It was only one step removed from undressing himself. This he could manage, if he could keep from being distracted by the way his prick nestled into the crease of her arse.

"That's right, Jack," said Mary encouragingly as he got the first button open after some dedicated fumbling. "Couldn't do it better myself.'

Jack laughed. "God, I missed you, Mary."

Mary twisted in his arms and kissed him, moving into a fierce hug that took Jack's breath away. "Jack," she mumbled into his neck and that was all. But Jack recognised the tone in her voice, had heard it in his own often enough, and he knew that whatever strange new world he had found himself in, he was not alone.

He turned his head and kissed her ear. "Come on, girl" he said. "I've got a job to do here."

Mary's chortle vibrated through his skin, but she relaxed her grip and between them they got her breeches off in quick time, kicking them away to join Jack's discarded clothes. 

"May I?" Jack asked, sliding his hand across the front of her smallclothes, direction evident.

Mary nodded.

Jack slipped his hand between her legs, his palm tingling with the heat that rolled off her. He rubbed the heel of his hand against her, feeling her hips shift and rock in rhythm with him. He stopped and drew a single finger along the length of her crease. She stilled, biting off a gasp.

"You like that?" Jack did it again and again and then shifted to two fingers, light pressure along the outside.

"Jack. Fuck. Stop teasing."

"Spoilsport," said Jack, but the underwear went the way of the rest of the clothes and Mary stood before him, naked at last.

Jack let his eyes rove over her, the gentle curve of waist into hip, strong, thickset thighs she could probably kill with if she set her mind to it, a thick thatch of black curls to match her hair. She had a body that told of the privation that so often went hand in hand with a pirate's life, but a slight swell to her belly suggested plumpness was only a few good meals and a deal of indolence away. Jack hoped they would both live to see that happen. 

"You gonna look all day?"

"Might."

But Jack made himself a liar the very next moment, stepping in and kissing her again, hand sliding back between her legs. She was so wet. For him. She was wet for him. Jack fought down the sudden urge simply to take her there and then, plough into her and take his pleasure without a thought for hers. No. Not on his watch. Jack knew the difference between what his brain wanted and what his body craved. He'd had a long time to learn how to triumph over his baser instincts. 

He concentrated instead on Mary. How her breathing hitched and changed as his fingers stroked and circled, how her hands clutched at his back, then his hips, then his arse, then back again, unable to keep still. How her hips bucked in stuttering movements and how the incoherent murmurs became louder, became words, sharp, bitten off sentences that said little, yet meant much, much more.

Jack wanted to kneel before her, bury his face in her, worshipping her to completion. 

"Mary," he said, peppering his words with kisses against her mouth, her jaw, her neck. "I want to…Can I use my tongue on you?"

Mary's hand went to cover his between her legs. "Not today. I got other plans for you today, Jack."

There was that dark spice voice again and Jack thrilled at it. "Whatever you want. Show me."

He let his hand be guided by Mary's, learning her and storing the knowledge safe away. Soon enough the words slipped back into incoherent chanting and her thighs began to shake.

"Now," Mary said and shoved Jack in the chest so he stumbled backwards. "On your back."

Jack didn't need telling twice, scrambling for the mattress. No sooner was he on his back than Mary was astride him, taking his prick in a steady hand and guiding it into her. How he prevented himself from spending then and there, Jack never knew. He wondered if she was thinking about how lucky he was to be allowed access to her most secret parts because at that moment it felt as though his luck would never end.

She took his hands in hers, holding them by his head, and angled herself low so she ground against him with every stroke. Her breasts drew across Jack's chest and her hair tumbled about his face, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling bright. Jack gripped her tightly, pushing back against her, supporting her, watching her face change, first serious, then smiling, laughing, then serious again, nonsense still spilling from her mouth.

And then she stilled for the briefest moment, a dark flush rolling across her face, and Jack felt it happen, muscles tightening and rippling round his prick, her hips making sharp thrusts and her fingers clenching and unclenching on his. From her running commentary, Jack had expected some sort of triumphal yell to round it all off, but she was completely silent, dropping her head to his shoulder to shudder her way through the aftershocks.

He wriggled one hand free and used it to stroke back her hair, tucking it behind her ears. 

"Not a bad start to our, ah, communion," he said.

Mary rose up a little, grinning down into his face. "Oh, we en't finished, Jack Rackham, as well you know." She circled her hips round him to prove her point. God, Jack was hard enough to hang a sail from and there was no avoiding it now Mary was sated. 

"If you insist, of course." 

"I do."

"Let's be honest, darling, you won't need to work too hard. My fuse is well lit, if you get my meaning."

"What a romantic."

"Always."

And then Mary rose to the tip of him before sinking back down and Jack found words were no longer a priority. He loosed his other hand and reached out to hold her thighs as she fucked him, raising his head to watch himself being swallowed by her over and over, each time building the pressure until Jack had to spend or die. He sat up, pressing his face into her chest, his arms wrapped tight round her and he came, in three jerking pulses, each accompanied by a silent, secret word.

Jack flopped back against the mattress, suddenly aware of the prickles of the needles.

"You are very good at this, you know."

"I do know." Mary patted his chest. "Come on. Anne will have both our hides if we're not back by dark."

"Not a solitary moment to bask? Mary, you are a cruel mistress."

"Yeah?" Mary climbed off him and Jack regarded his softening prick with mild sadness. "You love it."

Jack shrugged and nodded. How could he disagree?

He watched her for a moment as she began to dress, admiring her once again before she disappeared behind her clothes. 

"Speaking of Anne. What do you think she would think of all-" Jack waved his hand between the two of them. 'This?"

"Don't be daft, Jack. Her hand is right in it."

Jack drew his eyebrows down in question.

"How d'you think I got here then? Think I intuited where your little hideaway was? No. Anne told me how to get here. I en't no idiot, Jack Rackham. I see how things are with the two of you. It's clear between her and me, don't you fret."

Jack shrugged himself into his shirt, unsure how to feel. "Have you and she…?"

Mary stopped buttoning her breeches, giving Jack a searching look. "No. But I will if she'll let me and if you don't mind."

Did Jack mind? "It's a delicate matter, three rather than two," he said. "I want you to be happy. I want Anne to be happy."

"What about you? Don't you get your chance to be happy, too?"

"In an ideal world." Jack picked up his own trousers and shook them out, lips pressed tight together as if trying to stop more words from spilling from them.

"Then let's make it one."

He looked at her, then, her wide, honest expression holding exactly as much compassion as he could bear. His mouth relaxed into the beginnings of a smile.

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"I wanted you since the second I clapped eyes on you, Jack. And now it's more than that and you know it in your heart."

She was right. Jack did. Anne had always loved him, but looking back he knew she'd never wanted him in the same way he'd wanted her. This was different. Mary was different. They could work out a way to be three together if that's what they all wanted.

"Like a stool," he said.

"What?"

"You don't have a two-legged stool, do you?"

"I suppose not."

"What I'm saying," said Jack, hopping from foot to foot as he continued to dress himself, "is that if we do this, if we find a way that works, we'll be unstoppable. Just you wait and see."

"I like the sound of that." Mary's grin lit up her face and it was only the fear of a scolding from Anne that prevented Jack from ripping her clothes off once more. He satisfied himself with a fond look. It would have to do for now.

It was only when he was closing the door to the house that Jack realised that Charles had gone. He couldn't remember seeing the little fellow since they'd wandered in to find Mary waiting. So that was what it took to drive him away, was it?

"Definitely not the spirit of Charles, then," he said. "He loved strong women. And watching. I suppose at least it proves the luckless reprobate is still alive."

"Beg pardon?"

"My furry friend," Jack explained. "You didn't see him, did you? About so big, brown body, white face, adorable little black nose?"

"Can't say as I noticed."

"Oh," said Jack with a momentary pang of sadness. Charles had made a good companion and Jack wasn't one to cast off the old—no matter how recent—on the arrival of the new. "Still, what would I have done with him?" he said, mostly to himself. "He wouldn't do well on a ship. Perhaps he saved us both a maudlin farewell." He resolved to leave the window unshuttered so that Charles would have a place of safety should he ever find his way back. Someone should use the place, even if the someone was an overfamiliar rodent with no opposable thumbs or table manners. The mattress would never survive him.

Mary picked up the shovel leaning by the door and tapped Jack on the back of the legs with the flat blade. "En't time for daydreaming. Let's go, me 'ansome."

Jack took her hand. "Yes, my dear."

They walked away from the clearing and began down the path. Jack didn't look back, the treasure at his side making him almost forget the one that lay buried and hidden behind them.

It was an uneventful journey back to the beach save for the moment Jack nearly lost a paddle in a tangle of weed. So busy was he gazing at Mary that he was caught completely unawares by the paddle's attempt to wrench free from his hands and he fumbled it, falling backwards and nearly overboard as he rescued it before it sank in the water. 

Mary's laugh was loud and not remotely musical, but it held no malice and Jack loved it. He got up as gracefully as possible, which is to say not gracefully at all, and said, "I must say it's a terrible thing to laugh at a fellow when it's your fault he fell in the first place."

"My fault? How's that then?"

Jack's heart swooped in his chest. He blurted out, "You're so beautiful, Mary. You fill my senses until there's no room for anything else. I am blind and deaf except for when I look upon you."

Mary clenched her fists on her thighs and Jack froze, worried he'd said too much. "You can't say things like that when I can't do anything about it. A dugout's no place for romance."

Jack relaxed. "My apologies. I will confine my remarks to stable surfaces in future."

"I'd be ever so glad." And the way Mary looked at him made Jack long for that stable surface to miraculously appear before them that instant.

Soon enough they reached the mouth of the river and disembarked, pulling the canoe safely onto the bank to join its companion. Jack tried to haul Mary in for a kiss, but she skipped back a step, shaking her head.

"We can't. Not now. Look." She pointed to the white sand where their shadows merged and lengthened. The sun was sinking fast. 

"I promised," Mary said.

"I know." Jack bit down his impatience. "Come on then, let's go home to Anne."

It was as well Jack hadn't tried to bed Mary in the sand as, when he looked to the shore, the jolly was sitting in the water only a little way off. Jack sent up a loud hullo and the bowed figure in the boat sat up straight, waved and hauled up his anchor.

"Sleeping on the job," said Jack. "It's all right for some."

Their ferryman seemed pleased to see them. It was Yaakov, the lad to whom Jack had given the extra fish and Jack couldn't help but wonder if he was hoping for more preferential treatment once he was back on board. Of course, that was impossible if the ship were to run smoothly. It made Jack think. He would have to be extra careful about Mary or he might end with mutiny on his hands.

"Get it all done, Captain?"

"That I did."

"Hard work, I reckon."

"Yes."

"Cook's making a special celebration supper. He been working at it all the day."

"Has he, indeed?" Jack turned to Mary. "If I'm poisoned, my last act will be to point the finger of accusation at you, just so you're forewarned."

"Always did want a ship of my own," said Mary, nudging Jack's shoulder.

As they drew closer to the _Colonial Dawn_ , Jack could see Anne by the railing, watching them arrive. His heart lifted the same way it always did whenever he saw her. He let his little finger graze Mary's and thought once again that he must be the luckiest man alive. 

Anne didn't even wait until they were on board, calling over the side to Jack as he climbed the lowered rope, "What time do you call this? Food's nearly spoiled."

"And hello to you too, darling," said Jack, dropping onto the deck and kissing her cheek. "How will we tell the difference from any other day?"

Mary landed beside him and Jack did not fail to notice the look that passed between the two women and began to appreciate that there would be times ahead where his luck felt very much like something else.

"Welcome back, Mary. Didn't give you no trouble, did he?"

Mary's grin sent shivers up Jack's spine. "Him? Sweet as a sleeping babe. 'sides, a little knowledge goes a long way." She tapped the side of her nose.

"I'm a fount, all right," said Anne. "Lots more where that came from and all." 

"Now just a-"

"The more you squeal, Jack, the more I'll spill. Anyway, don't you think we got better things to do than talk about you all day? Right, Mary?"

"Right."

If that was the way it was going to be—these two magnificent women ganging up and ruling his life—then Jack was man enough to admit he liked it. He liked it a lot. 

"Come, ladies," he said, taking both their arms. "Let me escort you to our fine dining hall."

Anne slapped him away. "We ain't getting down that ladder three abreast."

"It's the thought that counts."

"Not always," Mary said, giving his arm a squeeze before letting go and following Anne. 

Jack felt the promise in the lingering imprint of her touch the whole way down below deck. He was suddenly ravenous; it had been a long and interesting day, after all.

"Now I do believe in miracles," said Jack through a mouthful of stew. "This actually tastes like food. I mean, I know he grew under your guidance before, Mary, but this is a little marvel in my mouth."

"Told you." Mary knocked her knee against his. "Everything's better with a little spice."

"Should thank Cook," Anne said.

"For doing his job at last?" Jack caught the disapprobation on Anne's face and capitulated before it as usual. "All right, yes. I'll do that. Happy?"

Anne shrugged. "Should thank me, too."

"Why? Did you peel the vegetables?"

"Got you a present, didn't I? Give a gift, get a thank you. It's polite."

Jack frowned. What present had she- Oh. "You could have warned me what you were about and saved me from entertaining dark thoughts of your grisly murder. But thank you, Anne. It was—it is—a truly wonderful gift."

"You're welcome." Anne twisted her spoon in her fingers. "Partner," she added eventually and Jack understood everything she couldn't find the words to say.

That night, Anne gave some pretext about checking over the sail plan with the sailing master for the morning's sailing and left Jack and Mary alone in the cabin. Perhaps—hopefully—there would come a day where no excuses were given or needed, but not yet. They needed no other encouragement and spent long hours exploring each other, fucking, talking, laughing, fucking again, until they were exhausted but unwilling to sleep, holding each other close.

"I know it's ridiculous, even pathetic," said Jack, stroking strands of sweat-plastered hair from Mary's forehead, "but if I close my eyes and sleep I'm afraid that when I wake you'll be gone."

Mary shook her head and kissed him. "Lightning don't strike twice, I thought. When I lost my husband, rest his soul, I knew that was it for me, I'd wander without a roof forever. But it weren't because here you are, Jack, and I'm home again. I en't going anywhere as long as you'll have me."

Jack closed his eyes, her words flickering inside him like a votive candle. He kissed her back, long and soft, thumb caressing her cheek. When he broke the kiss, he said, "The sun's rising, Mary, my love. Let's go and greet it." He sat up and held out his hand.

They climbed the ladder to the poop deck to find Anne already there and came to stand next to her. For a few moments they stood together in silence, watching the treetops bleed orange, the few clouds rimmed pink as the sun washed the night from the blue of the sky.

Then Anne turned to Jack and said, "What now?"

Jack looked up at the mainmast, streamers fluttering in the early morning breeze and then at Anne and Mary in turn. He slung his arms round the shoulders of the two women, kissing first Anne's cheek and then Mary soundly on the mouth. 

"Now, my darlings?" he said, grinning as widely as he knew how. "Now we have some fun."


End file.
